


All Tied Up and Nowhere to Go

by BeeBeMe



Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Defiance, F/F, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe
Summary: "“Bitch,” Righty says, cuffing her about the head. She can’t help but chuckle.“Oh baby-face,” she purrs, “you don’t know the half of it.”"Mouthing off to the person with a gun to her forehead isn't the smartest thing Courier 6 has done. At least she doesn't have to deal with the ramifications.
Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951108
Kudos: 8





	All Tied Up and Nowhere to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2020 Day 11: Psych 101 (Defiance). Wow! My first FO:NV fic! Hope y'all enjoy!

It was always gonna turn out like this.

Her mama told her to be careful - that caps aren't the only thing in the world. Farming's safer, even scaving would be better than being a runner for the rich and desperate. Those two are the only reasons why one would choose the Mojave Express - an abundance of caps or enough gumption to scrounge them up. Either way, it's a game for the powerful and ruthless, and a damn good way to find your nose somewhere it doesn't belong.

It wasn’t like she didn't have plenty of warning. Such an odd request - seven couriers, seven different routes, one destination. The amount of caps needed to field that expedition would set her and Taz up for life. That dream - her and her wife, together without a worry in the world, looking as carefree as those glossy people in pre-war mags - was juxtaposed grimly against her current situation. 

The burlap sack chafed against her broken nose, smelling of copper and sweat. Something’s bound her ankles and wrists together. Whatever it is, it’s cut off circulation through her leather gloves. Gravel digs into her hip and cheek, and the gag in her mouth tastes of dirt. Her shoulder bag is gone. Somehow, that irritates her even more than the circumstances.

She would have been a shitty farmer of scaver, but running was her _life._ Getting killed was the cherry on top of the shit-sunday of losing a package.

It's that thought that causes her to jerk, rubbing the rope raw around her wrists. At least they tied them in front of her - the dumbasses. If she can just-

There’s the crunch of boots on gravel before someone grabs her shoulder, yanking her up and onto her knees. The sack’s ripped off of her head, along with a good handful of hair. A low snarl builds in her chest at the pain and disrespect, but she’s got bigger ‘Guai to fry. 

Even the meager moonlight burns her eyes when compared to the darkness under the sack. Whoever made the damn thing sure knew what they were doing - not a scrap of light could get through those tight stitches. Still, she can feel the guy to her right, the same one who yanked the aforementioned bag off of her head. A few blinks and she can see the outline of two more people in front of her. She’s pretty certain that there’s no one to her left.

The guy on her right starts to move. It's now or never.

A life on the road did magic to her legs. She throws her hands at the ground, gets her feet underneath her, and pushes off - aiming her combined fists towards righty’s kidney. It does the job. The guy lets out a startled wheeze and drops along with her, unable to get her footing with both ankles tied, and the other one’s on her in a matter of seconds. He grabs her by the shoulder, hauls her up, and shoves his knee into her abdomen. 

Ah. That’s what was missing. They took her armor off.

Without rigid plastic or hardened leather to shield her, she’s quickly robbed of the air in her lungs. The guy drops her like a sack of tatos just as Righty rights himself (heh). A small wheeze of laughter comes from deep in her gut at the pun, and she can hear her captors still for a moment.

“Get ‘er back up,” the third man says, and the moment’s gone. Righty’s got a grudge and it shows as he grabs her a little harder than necessary and flings her down a _lot_ harder than necessary. A particularly vengeful piece of gravel digs in under her patella and she holds back a hiss.

“Bitch,” Righty says, cuffing her about the head. She can’t help but chuckle.

“Oh baby-face,” she purrs, “you don’t know the half of it.”

The third guy clears his throat when Righty seems to contemplate going a little further than cuffing, and the sound does his job. Meathead backs off, and number three gains her attention. Unlike the other two, he’s clean-pressed and dressed in a checkered suit. The type of guy that she’d chew up and spit out if she wasn’t on her knees and tied up. A shitty position, one that lets the first sliver of fear work its way into her consciousness. She pushes back at it, tells it to shut the fuck up, and flashes a smile at the twink.

“Well, this isn’t a nice way to treat your friendly neighborhood mailwoman. Actually, it’s real fuckin’ rude. What the hell’s your problem?” Twink’s got the gall to smile, an expression that she’d like nothing more to wipe off his face with her boot. 

That same smile lingers as he pulls a studded pistol from it’s holster. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid.” Her lips pull up into a snarl even as her heart pounds faster and the urge to hyperventilate presents itself. Sudden clarity hits her like a bullet to the brain. She isn’t walking out of this one. All she can think about is what she said to Taz when she left. Did she say that she loved her? Fuck, she doesn't remember.

The twink’s still talking, and each word’s sandpaper in her ears.

Cocky irritation flares in her chest, something that’s gotten her into trouble more times than she can count. It overshadows the guilt and fear in her chest just long enough to speak. She jerks her chin up, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. Somehow, her voice doesn't waver when she talks. “Shut the fuck up and pull the trigger, if you’ve even got the balls to-”

She doesn't remember hitting the ground. Didn’t even hear the sound of the gun firing. Perhaps it’s a good thing - being buried alive doesn't sound like a nice process. Getting dug up and rushed into brain surgery sounds only marginally better. The experience is lost to her - just like her name and her life and the meaning of the ring on her finger. 

Even then, she can’t bear to take it off. She doesn't remember why.

The only thing she remembers when she wakes weeks later is that feeling of defiance. It runs in her veins like ice, clogging her ears even as the kindly doctor gets her up and on her feet. She’s got a job to do, people to support. She doesn't know what that job was, or who she loves so deeply that it burns a hole in her chest, but she’s more than willing to find out.

Even if it's the last thing she ever does, she was going to find the person who loved her and show them _exactly_ how much she loved them back.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is loved and appreciated. Have a nice day!


End file.
